


Grey was the ocean

by Lavender_Seaglass



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, sortof!End!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Seaglass/pseuds/Lavender_Seaglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening between cases, spent at the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey was the ocean

They are between cases as they often are these days. Not so much with time to spare, as making time to do what they want. Dean takes them to what is left of a small town in Maine—"The pie is to die for," if that one cook is still around, and the lobster is heavenly, he explains as they pull off of the weathered motorway.

Castiel has never had crustacean, nor has he had such fresh seafood before. On the way to the restaurant, which turns out to be an august shack long ago painted a pale Robin-egg blue, Castiel thinks of things roving on the bottom of the ocean. The multi-coloured fish flashing their natural prismatic beauty, showing off by simply swimming, and the swarms of crabs a cheery red and walking side-ways. Although it wouldn't look like that—all of it would be in the dark, or in almost no light, under so much pressure, for all of them are under the water until they are brought up by larger creatures.

The food is wonderful, of course. They spend the meal engaged in a conversation about light, refraction, skinwalkers and conspiracy theories about The Who. Those dudes really had been up to something. They had known what was coming.

After the meal, and while Dean pays with a credit card under a name that isn’t his, Castiel wanders down to the beach. Down a curved path, he passes by rocks carved with words and initials of people who had been through before—people who had wanted to leave evidence of having been there, both proclaiming their visit, and claiming a presence in the future. Castiel passes through now, and he wonders what kind of person would deface these natural formations.

Is he that kind of person? He doesn't think so, but he always could be.

Once on the strand, he plops himself down by the foamy, seaweed laced edge of the surf. There is a line of dead, open mussels he can touch with his toes. It is mixed with bits of myriad types of broken shells. They are all a great many shades and hues, but the light is fading fast, and it is getting harder to distinguish colours. A gull overhead cries. Another answers. The waves are a constant background noise.

Castiel digs his hand into the sand. Allows the rough grit to get under his nails, takes up a handful of the damp stuff and watches as it falls in clumps from his hand. He examines his hand, there is sand under the hair on his pale knuckles.

After a while, Dean joins him, and Castiel smiles. Dean has brought along some old plaid blankets, a bottle of something 40 proof, and a fire-starter, if they end up wanting one.

"Found you," Dean says.

"Mmm," Castiel says as he slips easily up against the hunter. They huddle together, and Dean covers them with an old blanket.

The sand is a tad cold, but it isn't so bad, not like this. The alcohol and the lighter end up put aside half-buried in the sand.

The sea slides from grey, to darker grey, to ink, and to pitch. The sky becomes a deep obsidian, with patches of purple where it is illuminated by precious strings of constellations only ever visible atop mountain pinnacles, in the middle of desolate plains, or in de-populated parts of the States.

After a good while, Dean shifts them so that Castiel is sitting more against him. He fiddles quickly with one of the extra blankets and then leans back so that they are looking up.

Dean asks, "So, what do you think of the great Atlantic?"

"It's rather more impressive as a human," Castiel says, and Dean laughs into his black hair. "But it's a bit grey. You?"

Dean shrugs. "It's a nice ocean, sure."

Castiel says, not for the last time, "Thanks, Dean."

Dean kisses him. Not only as his response to express what there has never been enough words for—you are welcome, I owe you, please stay, thank you thank you thank you—he tilts his head a little and lets his hand cup the side of Castiel's head, thumb settling under an earlobe, lips parting softly when he is done. Dean is once more saying, _thank you for being alive._


End file.
